When You Were Mine

I never thought I’d be here, with a suicidal daughter considering dropping out of college, and a son who might still be dealing the kind of drugs she took in her attempt to kill herself. It’s all so horrible, and yet it’s real, and I’m staring out at fields and sky and beauty and I want to both cry and laugh and shake my head in wonder.

Nothing is sacred, and yet everything is.

As we head back down the mountain, I feel as if we’re re-entering reality. We’ll need to talk with Emma about her future, and we really should have a follow-up conversation with Josh about what he’s been up to, confirming that he is done with the drugs for good, keeping the communication open. Dylan has a CBT session tomorrow, and Beth is coming over on Saturday for her second visit, which for some reason feels like it takes out the whole weekend. Julie has texted me twice, asking me if I’m okay, since Nick saw her when he was taking out the garbage and alluded to our situation, although with no concrete details.

All of life presses down on me, heavier and heavier with each step that I take. Part of me wishes that I could have stayed on top of the mountain, simply staring out at the view, breathing that clean air.

As we reach the bottom of the mountain and head towards the car, Nick takes my hand.

“Okay?” he asks quietly, and I manage to nod.

“It just feels like a lot.”

“I know. But we’re in this together, Ally. Really.”

I nod again, and he squeezes my hand. I’m grateful for all he’s done and shared today, so grateful, but some small, cynical seed in me has already taken root.

Nick can be a man of grand gestures rather than small, everyday actions. I just hope he means what he says, and we’ll be in this together tomorrow, and the day after, and then the day after that. Because I really don’t think I can do all—or any—of this alone.

27

BETH

Sunday, the day when I’m meant to accompany the Fieldings and Dylan to cut down a Christmas tree, is as bright and perfect as a postcard, tailor-made for this kind of family activity—blue skies, a hard frost that almost looks like snow, and the air is as crisp as an apple, as clear as a drink of water.

I show up at their house feeling more nervous than usual, both because I don’t know what to expect from today, and also because of yesterday, when I had the wretched therapy observation with Dylan. Ally drove us both to the psychiatrist’s office in Simsbury, which awkwardly made her feel like my mom, and James, the psychiatrist, a friendly but studious-looking guy with glasses and a beard, sat in the corner of the room, jotting notes on a pad of paper as I desperately tried to be normal with Dylan and wasn’t. I’m not sure I even know what normal is now, if I ever did.

It certainly wasn’t what was happening between us then, with my voice high and wavering and Dylan seeming to deliberately ignore me. He was concentrating on building a tower of blocks, and I tried to help, afraid that if it fell over, he might have a meltdown, and guess what? It did, and so did he. I tried to keep the tower from falling, lunging forward to catch the blocks in my hands, and that’s when Dylan started screaming.

“I’ll fix it, Dyl,” I said desperately. “Don’t worry I’ll fix it, I promise.”

Eventually he calmed down, but I was a shaky mess and James kept scribbling. I didn’t like to think about what he might be writing, and it was nothing but a relief when the hour finally ended, tempered by the awful acknowledgement that I’ll have do it again next week, and then the week after that.

Now I try not to fidget as Nick opens the door and welcomes me in. He’s dressed like an ad for Eastern Mountain Sports, with matching waterproof parka, hat, and gloves, and a pair of hiking boots that probably cost at least two hundred bucks. I feel inadequate in my winter jacket straight from Walmart, my beat-up sneakers. How can I possibly compete with these people?

“Hey, Beth,” Nick greets me easily as he opens the door wide and steps aside to let me in. His smiling gaze takes in my pathetic winter gear before he adds, “Great to see you. I think it’s probably snowing up at the farm, so do you want to borrow a pair of Ally’s boots? What size are you?”

“Um, six and a half.”

“Ally’s a seven, but I think with an extra pair of socks it should be fine.” He gives me a paternal smile that manages to feel both genuine and patronizing. I mutter my thanks.

Everyone is milling around downstairs, getting coats and hats, scarves and mittens, and I find Dylan in the family room, dressed in all his new winter gear, looking like a magazine ad as well, with his hair brushed back and his matching hat and mittens in navy blue.

“Hey, Dylan.” I decide to ruffle his hair instead of going in for a hug, but he ducks his head away and I withdraw my hand, telling myself not to feel stung. He’s seven; he’s growing up. That’s all it has to be.

Ally comes downstairs, looking as magazine-perfect as everybody else but me, if a little tired.

“Hey, Beth. We should all be ready in a minute.”

I wait with Dylan while they rush around, trying not to feel surplus to requirements, and then it’s time to head into their car, a big six-seater SUV that’s built like a tank. Ally orders Emma and Josh into the bac

kseat, and Dylan and I take the middle. I smile at him, and he looks away. Why do I feel like he hates me? I don’t know if I’m being paranoid, analyzing every microsecond of our interaction, or if I’m not being fearful enough. What if he always resents me? What if these three months away change everything?

It’s an hour’s drive to the Christmas tree farm, and at first Nick chivvies everyone along with quizzes and games, but after half an hour, Josh takes out his phone and Emma looks out the window like she’s lost in her own world, and Nick lapses into silence.

I’m grateful; I wasn’t any good at the games and Dylan, of course, didn’t say a word, although now that Ally has said he is speaking part of me is determined to hear him talk, even though I know pushing him is hardly going to help matters between us.

About fifteen minutes from the farm, we start to see snow, a soft, fleecy blanket draped over the fields and frosting the trees like a birthday cake. It’s so beautiful, compared to the cold, barren grayness of West Hartford, and I lean closer to Dylan to point out the sights—branches bowed down with the soft weight of the snow, drifts all the way up the fence posts.